Christmas Lights
by stargazerdown
Summary: "You really are a freak, Sherlock!" Sherlock and John have a fight, and hurt feelings ensue. Based on the song Christmas Lights, by Coldplay. Drunk!Sherlock, for a bit, maybe OOC. Disclaimers: I don't own Sherlock or it's characters (unfortunately), and I don't think I am the first one with this idea, but I don't mean to copy anyone's story.
1. Poison In My Blood

Sherlock sets aside the fifth empty bottle and wipes his lips, feeling vaguely unfulfilled, and reaches for a sixth. He takes a long swig, then runs his fingers through his dark curls and turns them into fists, pulling on his thick hair.

_Freak._

He leans on his elbows and sweeps his hand across the table in search of the last beer and misses, knocking over three empty bottles in the process. They shatter, and glass spews everywhere.

_Freak._

He closes his red, swollen eyes and lets his head crash to the table, glass pricking his cheeks.

_"You really _are _a freak, Sherlock!"_

Sherlock starts to cry, a desperate, drunken sob. Tears stream down his pale face. No one hears him. No one cares anymore.

* * *

**I'll add more soon, sorry this chapter was short. :)**

**Please tell me what I could work on and what you thought!**


	2. Oxford Street

_Earlier on Christmas Day_

It had all started because Sherlock rolled up his sleeves. Just past the elbow. Just far enough for John to see the cuts as he leaned over Sherlock to reach his laptop. Sherlock hears John's sharp intake of breath, but he doesn't look up from his boiling chemicals. "Sherlock?" his flatmate says softly, almost a whisper. Sherlock grunts in acknowledgement. "What...what have you been doing to yourself?" The detective watches the liquids bubble and pop in their test tubes.

John grabs Sherlock's wrist with sudden force. The detective winces as John's calloused hands press on wounds both fresh and old. "This, Sherlock. You've been cutting yourself." The effect of Sherlock's nonchalant shrug is diminished by his pained expression. "It was an experiment." John's face twists into an expression of disgust. "An experiment," he repeats. "Yes." He drops Sherlock's wrist. "What did you hope to find out with this _experiment_?" he asks, voice loaded with sarcasm.

_Why is he so angry? _

"John-"

"Cutting your wrists in the name of science? What the _hell _were you thinking?" John is shouting now, no longer able to control his frustration.

"John, I-"

"You know, Donovan was right about you- you really _are _a freak, Sherlock!"

_Freak._

He'd heard the word all his life, but never from one he trusted so completely as John.

_Freak._

The pain lingers like a blow to his heart long after John takes his coat and slams the door. Outside, the snow does not fall.

* * *

John's feet drag as he trudges through the London streets.

_Why?_

Can't Sherlock see how much he worries him? Body parts in the fridge, fine, skulls over the fireplace, okay, assassins on the living room couch, alright, but wrist-cutting? John closes his eyes and sees the pale, thin arm of his flatmate covered in deep red slashes. How could he do something like that to himself? What experiment could he possibly be working on that allowed him to go this far?

And why couldn't that idiot just see that he was hurting his blogger more than himself?

John's eyes start to water, and he presses his palms against them in a futile attempt to stop the flow of tears. He plays the argument over in his mind, agonizing over each sentence.

_Freak._

_I called him a freak._

He lets out a scream of frustration, ignoring the glances last-minute shoppers throw his way. Couldn't Sherlock see what he was doing to him? Lifting his gaze, he sees his puffy-eyed reflection in a shop window. He stares at himself for a minute.

_God, I need to get drunk._

Still, the snow does not fall.

* * *

**Wow, hope that wasn't too convoluted. Please tell me what you thought and any requests you have for the next chapter(s)! Any questions about the story, feel free to ask. :)**


	3. Chandeliers of Hope

Nine.

_John says I am a freak._

Ten.

_I am a freak._

Eleven.

_John hates me because I am a freak._

Twelve.

_Where did John go?_

_I need to find John._

_I need to apologize._

_Forgive me, John, for whatever I did._

After twelve bottles of beer, Sherlock's thoughts and words begin to slur together into one jumbled mass of confusion and pain and quotations from Proust. He stumbles out the door of 221B drunk, forlorn, and without a coat. The detective shivers as the cold air whips his blood into ice, but he tells himself he is not cold. He's used to this, his body contradicting his mind, but never on a level so much as this. Being with John feels so _right, _all those little pats on the back and reassuring squeezes. Sherlock does not know this is what it feels like to have a friend, but he does know that no matter how good being with John feels and smells and _is, _he is a freak. He knows this now, not hidden in the back of his mind as an unimportant opinion. Opinions _are _important, John's are, and John...John...

Why can't he stop thinking about John?

_Now you will come out of a confusion of people...now John will come out of a confusion of people?...maybe John is cold. He will come home and make tea like he always does, and put milk in it, because I did not spoil the milk this week. He will laugh and we will sit in the living room. He will write another blog entry. _

_John is my blogger._

_He is ordinary and perfect._

_He will drink his tea even after it has gone cold. And then he will...John will..._

_hate me._

_Because I am a freak._

Sherlock's heart clenches. He laughs, a high, unsteady laugh created from the alcohol coursing through his bloodstream.

He walks faster, cold wind, biting his cheeks and tousling his curly hair.

_Un jour, vous aurez l'air de voir que je suis allé_

_Pour demain peut pleuvoir, alors_

_Je vais suivre le soleil_

And as he strides down the crowded sidewalks of London, people stop and stare at the tall man unaware of the tears streaming down his face. He sings softly, almost like a song for the asking, and trips over his own feet drunkenly as he walks one, looking for one doctor.

Still, the snow does not fall.

* * *

**Please tell me what you thought and any improvements I could make! Also feel free to ask questions. **

**P.S. Can you guess the song reference? (Other than the title, of course.) ;)**


	4. Light Up the Fireworks

8:03 PM

Meanwhile, John keeps walking, at first aimlessly, then at a set course towards Sarah's house, traversing the distance step by step. He replaces thoughts of his flatmate with thoughts of her, picturing her soft, curly hair, the richness of her voice, the flicker of joy visible beneath the cold iciness of her grey-blue eyes when she makes a correct deduction-

_Dammit._

He gives up.

_I need to find him._

* * *

8:57 PM

Sherlock shivers. He glares at the multicolored Christmas lights that illuminate the streets now almost devoid of people. In every one, in each tinted bulb, he sees John reflected. He reaches out to touch the doctor, but John recoils, disgusted by the freak's touch.

* * *

10:31 PM

A deserted park.

Two figures, one tall and lean, one short and compact, both looking for something. Someone.

Two heads turn, and two men run towards each other.

The night sky is now pitch black and the city is now entirely lit up by rows and rows of twinkling Christmas lights, swirling and dancing, and in the center of them are two reunited friends, both overjoyed and wary.

"Sherlock," John says. "You're cold."

"Yes?" Sherlock responds, his voice lilting and high-pitched.

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock."

The surprise of John throwing his arms around him and burying his face in Sherlock's thin shirt takes a moment to cut through the alcohol in the detective's brain. He tentatively places one soft, pale hand in John's sandy hair and one on his back, hesitantly at first, then squeezing John tight. Confused, but happy.

"Oh, John."

The snow starts to fall.


End file.
